Hard Road

by J. B. Turner

  “Stop the bullshit. What do you really do?”

  The kid closed his eyes. “We sub-contract web jobs, satisfied? I’m logistics.”

  “Who funds this operation?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. My boss does. He runs the show.”

  Reznick grabbed the kid by the throat, gun still to his head. “Where’s your boss?”

  The kid’s eyes were screwed up tight with the pain. “He’s out of town.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The young man’s eyes filled with tears as he shook his head.

  Reznick pressed his face right up to the kid’s and smelled the fear. It was as if it was seeping through his pores. “I just killed Magruder.” The look on the kid’s face was that of sheer terror. “Now I am not in the mood to discuss matters at length. I want answers. And I won’t stop until I find my daughter. So, where is she?”

  “I swear: I don’t know anything about your daughter.”

  Reznick stared down at the kid. “Magruder said he was going to kill me. So, how was he going to carry this out?”

  “All I know is that you were going to be directed to the Sunset Hotel.”

  “And then what?”

  “Magruder was told to await instructions. You would then…”

  “I would then what?”

  “You would then receive a call saying to phone a cab. And Magruder would then be dispatched to pick you up before the official cab company and kill you. He was then to take the guy you have to the rendezvous point where they would be waiting.”

  “Where’s the rendezvous point?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Reznick kneeled down beside the young man. He lifted his gun and the kid recoiled. “Who’s running this show?”

  “Brewling. Mr Brewling.”

  “Does he work for the Company?”

  The man shook his head. “Used to. A lot of contacts there.”

  “So, you sub-contract the dirty work?”

  The man nodded.

  “Will Brewling be at the rendezvous point?”

  “I don’t know. I just sit in this office all day. That’s what I did at Langley. I never worked out in the field.”

  “Figures. Who does Brewling use, apart from Magruder? Any Miami crew involved?”

  “Some Haitians. I think they’re all FRAPH.”

  Reznick knew all about the feared paramilitary group, The Front for the Advancement and Progress in Haiti, set up in 1993 by the CIA. He was the operations chief for a Special Forces A-Detachment, which spearheaded Operation Restore Democracy in Haiti in 1994.

  He saw first-hand what FRAPH were capable of. They broke into homes and tortured and killed their political enemies. Thousands were slaughtered. They left faceless bodies strewn in the back streets of slums. It was known as ‘facial scalping’, in which a victim’s face was peeled from ear-to-ear with a machete. In voodoo mythology, it was believed to be a way of torturing people in the afterlife, the mutilation denying them a proper burial.

  Many of FRAPH were former members of the Tonton Macoutes, the infamous Duvalier gang, named after a child-snatching bogeyman from Haitian fairy tales.

  Was that who had his daughter?

  Reznick pressed his face up to the young man’s. “How do you know for sure they were Haitians?”

  “Look, that’s what I know.”

  “You got a name for these Haitians?”

  The man shook his head and said nothing.

  “Tell me where they are.”

  “I think…”

  “I don’t want think or maybe, I want a precise location where they are.”

  The man closed his eyes. “Somewhere in Miami Beach.”

  Reznick stared out towards the outer office. At the desk where the young man had been sitting there was a Blackberry with a flashing red light. A recent message had been received. He went over to the desk and pulled the weeping kid with him. A trail of blood was left behind him.

  He picked up the Blackberry and scrolled down. Nothing of any interest. But he was curious. So he scrolled through the applications and saw apps for Smart Wi-Fi, eOffice 4.6 and e-Mobile Contacts. Then he saw an app he didn’t recognise or know anything about, Dexrex SMS.

  “What the hell is this?”

  He opened it up and saw it required a screen name and password.

  The young man blinked away the tears as he stared at the Blackberry screen.

  Reznick pressed his gun to the kid’s head. “Screen name and password now, fucker!”

  The kid began to shake. “Screen name is Lemonheart, password is Genesis. As in the Bible.”

  “As in the shitty rock band,” Reznick spat.

  Reznick pressed in the letters onto the tiny Qwerty keyboard. Then an extra security question was asked. “Childhood nickname.”

  “Please… I am not authorised to–”

  “Childhood nickname!”

  “Droop.”

  “Droop?”

  The man flushed crimson. “I walked around with droopy drawers as a toddler.”

  “Jesus Christ. And you used to work for the CIA?” Reznick shook his head as he keyed in Droop. Suddenly a huge archive of de-encrypted instant messages, which had been sent from the Blackberry, was downloaded.

  The last message sent caught his eye. It said:

  Proceed to 5131 North Bay Road for safe delivery of cargo after pick-up.

  Reznick showed the message to the man. “What’s this address? I thought you said you didn’t know.”

  The man stared at the screen for a couple of seconds. He escrunched up his face as if trying to remember what the address meant, before he clutched his bloody knee. Then he reached out underneath the nearest desk.

  “What the fuck are you touching?” Reznick said, pulling the kid back.

  Reznick crouched down and saw a silver switch, underneath the table. The little bastard had set off an alarm.

  Suddenly, the kid was scrambling across the floor to his jacket slung over a chair and reached inside. He pulled out a pistol and turned to point it at Reznick.

  Reznick was already one step ahead. He stared down at the kid and fired two shots into his chest. He watched, as if in slow motion, as the kid crashed to the floor. Blood oozed out of the dead kid’s chest, through his shirt and seeped into the carpet. He stared long and hard at the dead young man. He’d given Reznick no choice.

  His mind was in freefall. He committed the North Bay Road address to memory. Then he headed down the stairwell for three floors, rode the elevator to the first floor, and then raced down the stairs to the basement garage to get back to Luntz.

  Heart pounding, he pushed through the basement door and froze.

  A huge black security guard was pointing a gun straight at him. “Don’t move, motherfucker!”

  THIRTEEN

  In the control room of the FBI in Miami, Assistant Director Martha Meyerstein was staring grim-faced at a bank of screens all showing real-time CCTV footage from the Brickell Avenue tower, as the drama unfolded. Standing at her side was the Special Agent in Charge of Miami, Sam Clayton. His arms were folded and sleeves rolled up.

  Her team was on phones either chasing down leads or reaching out to other intelligence agencies. But it was clear that the ongoing police incident, which had thrown up red flags as it matched Reznick’s description, was the breakthrough her team needed.

  She recognised Reznick’s features as he stood, hands on head, with an ill fitting brown UPS uniform. The middle-aged black security guard was speaking into the radio attached to his shirt, gun fixed on Reznick.

  “We’ve got the fucker,” Clayton said.

  Meyerstein ignored the comment as Reznick was ordered to turn around to face the guard. He was now staring straight into the security camera. The dark circles around his eyes made it look like he hadn’t slept in days. A heavy growth on his face, mouth turned down.

  “What’s the ETA?” she said, turning to look at Clayton.

  “
Approximately two minutes.”

  “You mind me asking why it’s taking them so long?”

  Clayton sighed. “Some hip-hop convention. Miami-Dade police have to help out Miami Beach police who are swamped with calls. Tens of thousands of them are flooding the city hogging the beach, Ocean Drive, Washington Avenue. But there are two cars already downtown, and should be there real quick.”

  Meyerstein stared at the screen as the guard wiped sweat from his brow. “I don’t like it. And what’s happened to Luntz?”

  “Our guys are scouring the footage in the parking garage as we speak.”

  “Good. What about our two Fed teams?”

  Clayton blew out his cheeks. “North Miami Beach to downtown. Ten minutes if they’re lucky.”

  “They need to get a move on.”

  Meyerstein couldn’t take her eyes off Reznick. He was staring into the camera and it felt as if he was staring straight at her. As if he knew she was there. She pushed the thought from her mind. “What about the guy Reznick killed inside this building? And what about his company, Norton & Weiss?”

  “Don’t know the identity of the kid who ran into Reznick. All we know is that Norton & Weiss Inc is a law firm, run by a former CIA guy, Brewling. He wasn’t on our radar. We had him down as retired. Name ring a bell?”

  “Brewling? Didn’t he work under Buckley way back in the 1980s?”

  “Was his sidekick in Beirut no less. Led the covert operation to free Buckley when he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. It was a fuck-up and, as you know, Buckley was killed. Brewling retreated back to Langley.”

  Meyerstein didn’t take her eyes off the screens. “That figures. Does he live in Miami?”

  “Just north. Very upscale area. Indian Creek Island. But he’s not there.”

  “Well let’s find him. We need to speak to him.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  Meyerstein felt frustrated just watching pictures. “Why is there no sound? Can’t we hook up to this guy’s radio through his security company?”

  “We’re still trying. Shit, he’s making his move.”

  Meyerstein watched as Reznick took a step forward. She knew what was coming. In an instant, Reznick grabbed the man’s gun and used his left hand to redirect it away from his body, before he slammed his right fist hard into the guard’s jaw. It was a Krava Maga move Meyerstein herself had been taught by the Israeli military. The guard was out cold.

  “Oh Christ, what the hell?”

  She watched as Reznick headed out of view. “Is it possible to get some other camera angles, people?”

  A computer guy shouted across, “That’s all we’ve got.”

  Her cell phone rang and she recognised O’Donoghue’s caller display. “Damn, that’s all I need.”

  Meyerstein hooked up with O’Donoghue who was taking charge of the emergency secure video teleconference from inside his huge office on the seventh floor at the FBI’s HQ in Washington. She quickly brought him up to speed with developments down in Miami.

  The FBI Director spoke first, “Martha, we have begun discussions with the President’s National Security Staff, the Director of National Intelligence and the Department of Homeland Security, on this ongoing investigation. We are all very concerned that this is resolved ASAP. How did you let him get away?”

  Meyerstein felt herself flush momentarily and took a few moments to comprose herself. “With respect, sir, this is not an ordinary Joe. Jon Reznick is trained to cope with almost anything. Look, I don’t think this is a time for pointing fingers. This is a very complex investigation.”

  “Miami is not a big city. Why can’t we trace Reznick and in turn our scientist?”

  “The signals are being jammed, pure and simple. We just cannot pinpoint where he is.”

  The bright red light on the phone on the conference table began flashing. “Bear with me a second, sir, I’ll turn this on to speakers so we can all hear.”

  She pressed the speaker’s button so O’Donoghue and everyone in the FBI’s Miami conference room could hear. “Martha, we got something.”

  It was Kate Reynolds, a bright up and coming young FBI Special Agent in her late twenties – a political science graduate signed up at John Hopkins – who had been seconded to the Hoover building from the Kansas City field office and was now at the lab Luntz worked at. She reminded Meyerstein of herself at that age. Fresh, eager and not worn down by the pressures of the job. But Meyerstein also detected a toughness and no-nonsense approach which she could relate to.

  Meyerstein said, “Kate, we’re in the middle of a teleconference with Director O’Donoghue, just so you know.”

  Reynolds gave a nervous cough. “I’m working alongside the lab’s senior management team. We’re going through the records of everyone who’s worked there in that lab, and we have three members of staff who have left in the last three years. Two have been accounted for, tracked down to new jobs. But there is one guy who worked with Luntz and who seems to have dropped off the radar.”

  Meyerstein said, “Kate, you got a name?”

  “Lt Col Scott Caan, a US army scientist. Hasn’t been seen in the last couple of weeks.”

  Meyerstein spoke first, facing the screens. “That’s great work, Kate. OK, let’s find out everything about him. Phone records, medical history, friends, coworkers, let’s get into his life and see what we can find.”

  Special Agent Reynolds said, “Sure thing.”

  O’Donoghue was nodding, taking notes. “You lead on this, Martha. And no more excuses.”

  The screens from O’Donoghue’s office went blank.

  Meyerstein cleared her throat and turned to her team in the Miami conference room. “A guy disappears from a government lab. No word from him. Luntz contacts us and is under FBI protection before he is due to meet us about his concerns. There are red flags here. Agreed?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Kate, are you still there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’d like a full report in in hour. The bare bones will do. Get me a picture of Caan and send it now.” Meyerstein turned again to her team. “As soon as the photo arrives, I want it run through face recognition software. I want it analyzed in-depth and then let’s get Caan’s picture to every field office in the country. He’s out there somewhere.”

  The phone on the conference table rang. Meyerstein picked up and the caller display told her it was Roy Stamper.

  “Martha, I’ve been following up a couple of leads with Miami Beach police,” he said, loud traffic in the background. “We’ve got something real interesting.”

  “Where exactly are you, Roy?”

  “A back street in South Beach. The body of a forty two year-old white male. Look’s like he’s just been waterboarded.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Nope. Not exactly an everyday occurrence.”

  “You got a name of this guy?”

  “We got a name and a direct connection to Reznick.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “The dead guy is called Chad Magruder. Ed has got back to me with confirmation that he was Special Activities Division. Has a sister who lives out in Weston, nice town on the edge of the Everglades.”

  Meyerstein felt her stomach knot. “Tell me all you’ve got on this connection.”

  “You’re gonna love this. Magruder and Reznick were in Iraq together. Black ops. But it doesn’t end there.”

  Meyerstein glanced up at the screen as medics attended to the unconscious security guard at the Brickell Tower. “Yeah, I’m listening.”

  “Four hours ago, a suspicious death was called in from Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Go on.”

  “Local police found a dead guy on a boat. Guy named Leggett. Old Delta operator, just like Reznick. Best man at his wedding.”

  “Good work, Roy.”

  She ended the call and looked around at her team, relaying the news. “I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s obvious Reznick is
the common thread. Two dead former Delta buddies of his. A dead young man who worked in Norton & Weiss. And a missing scientist. And let’s not forget, one of our colleagues, Special Agent Connelly from Seattle, is also dead.”

  She detected a renewed sense of determination amongst her team. “We might’ve let Reznick slip through our fingers. But that’s the first and last time it’s gonna happen. I want to find both Reznick and Luntz. I want everyone on it. I want all agencies brought up to speed. And I want results, not excuses.”

  FOURTEEN

  The first thing Reznick did after speeding away from the Brickell Tower was to dump the car in an underground garage. He hauled Luntz out of the trunk and moved him into the passenger seat of a dark blue Chevrolet Tahoe with blacked-out windows. Then he headed across the causeway to South Beach.

  He glanced at Luntz who looked clammy and pale, clearly not well. Probably exhausted as well as traumatised. Tiredness was also beginning to cloud Reznick’s head. His thoughts seemed to be slowing down. Even the amphetamines couldn’t kill the creeping mental fatigue. But he knew he had to try and head across to 5131 North Bay Road.

  Was his daughter being held there?

  The cold reality was that she could be anywhere.

  The satnav showed North Bay Road was on the north side of South Beach, overlooking Biscayne Bay.

  “I feel unwell,” Luntz said. “I feel a migraine coming on. I can’t go on.”

  “Just hang in there.”

  Reznick groaned. He could see that driving around with Luntz was asking for trouble. Sooner or later a cop would pull them over. It was getting too risky having him around. The bottom line was that he needed to dump Luntz. Get him somewhere safe.

  His mind raced realising he was clean out of ideas. He needed someone who knew the area. But who?

  He racked his brains, desperately trying to think of ideas. The more he tried to conjure up an idea the more his mind clouded over.

  Think, damn it, think.

  He drove on for a couple of more blocks.

  Think man.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a name sprang into his head. Tiny. Ex-Delta operator, Tiny. That’s right.

  Reznick began to remember back to a telephone conversation he’d had with Leggett, a year or so earlier. He said he’d bumped into Tiny in a bar. Tiny was working the door. But what was the name of the bar? And where exactly? Had to be relatively close to Fort Lauderdale.